Michele waited patiently in a secluded corner booth at the far end of the dimly lit restaurant. The atmosphere was thick with tension, the low hum of muted conversations and clinking glasses providing a stark contrast to the gravity of the meeting about to unfold. Matteo gave a sharp nod to Frankie, the lone man he had chosen to accompany him for this delicate encounter.

“Ah, bella bows,” Michele greeted warmly, his voice carrying a hint of familiarity.

The eldest of the three Dons, Michele’s graying hair and the deep lines etched across his face betrayed the weight of years and worry. A Don visibly stressed was never a good sign, and Matteo couldn’t help but wonder if Alessio saw this as a weakness or merely the natural toll of their ruthless world. Michele rose and embraced each man firmly, the gesture both a sign of respect and an attempt to ease the palpable tension.

They settled around the table, the other men keeping a respectful distance, allowing the three leaders the privacy needed to speak openly. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across their faces, highlighting the seriousness of the moment.

“I didn’t expect you to agree to meet so quickly, Palladino,” Michele remarked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

A bartender appeared silently, handing similar glasses to Matteo and Alessio. Matteo, however, subtly pushed his glass aside, unwilling to drink anything served during such a critical family meeting.

“I happened to be in the country already,” Alessio replied smoothly, his voice calm and measured. “I was sorry to miss Valentina and Antonio’s funerals. I wanted to pay my respects now that I had some time.”

Michele nodded thoughtfully. “It was a beautiful service, Accardi. Your father would have been proud.”

Matteo responded with a curt “Hm,” clearly uninterested in delving into anything personal with Alessio.

Though Alessio seemed eager to mend fences between their families, the Galantes were not known for their warmth or friendliness. Historically, the Palladinos had maintained their stronghold as the original crime syndicate in Italy, while the Accardis and Galantes had long been locked in bitter rivalries before carving out their own territories in New York’s shadowy underworld. Distrust between the two New York families was the norm—until Matteo and Conor were born. Conor, being half Irish and half Italian, had a unique upbringing that set him apart. His early relationship with his girlfriend had softened him in ways Matteo sometimes doubted were compatible with the harsh life of a Don. Still, Matteo looked forward to the day he would take the reins of the Galante family.

“Why call this meeting, Galante?” Alessio asked, leaning forward with a curious gaze.

Michele’s warm smile faltered slightly. “Before we begin, I must stress that nothing spoken here leaves this room. No word of our discussion must be repeated to anyone.” Both Matteo and Alessio nodded in agreement. Michele exhaled heavily, the weight of the past few weeks evident in the tired slump of his shoulders. “By now, you’ve heard that one of my most trusted men was arrested?”

Both Alessio and Matteo nodded solemnly.

Michele’s smile twisted into a grim sneer. “I promised Philip many things. Finding out who tipped off the police wasn’t one of them.”

“And have you?” Matteo asked sharply.

Michele nodded. “Fortunately for us, the rat liked to squeal. After just a few minutes with me, he was confessing everything—more than I expected. I uncovered a lot: ongoing investigations into both the Accardi and Galante operations, stakeouts outside our clubs and businesses, information only our closest insiders could have known.”

“You found a mole?” Alessio asked, eyes narrowing.

“No,” Michele said, leaning back and casually draping his arm along the booth’s backrest. “I found a whole colony of them.” He shrugged. “Mostly street-level types given bad batches of our product or men in Accardi’s camp whose families abandoned them after losing everything. Rats, not moles, mostly. But,” he raised a finger, “there’s one individual who caught my attention. Have you ever heard of the Reaper?”

Matteo’s entire body stiffened, his gaze locking onto both men. Michele’s grin widened knowingly. “Ah, so you have been digging into your mother and brother’s deaths after all. I feared the incident broke you, made you lose sight of what truly matters.”

It was just past 1:00 a.m.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“You found the man responsible?” Alessio pressed, leaning forward with disbelief.

Matteo clenched his jaw so tightly he could taste the metallic tang of his own enamel. He caught Frankie’s sharp nod and spoke quietly, “One of my men has been working undercover. He’s heard whispers of a man called the Reaper—an assassin hired by the Irish mafia to kill discreetly, making murders look like accidents.” Matteo’s gaze drifted to the empty restaurant around them. “We haven’t located him yet,” he added, his voice laced with promise. His eyes met Michele’s sharply. “This rat knew about him?”

“Even better. He knows where to find him,” Michele replied.

In a sudden motion, Matteo sprang to his feet, crossing the table in a few strides and grabbing Michele by the collar. “Where. Is. He?” he growled, just as Michele’s bodyguard leveled a gun at Matteo’s temple.

“I’d be happy to hand him over, Accardi,” Michele said with a calm smile. “But first, you have to agree to help me with something.”

“Release him and hear him out, Accardi,” Alessio urged firmly.

Matteo let go of Michele with a shove. Michele adjusted his collar and gave his man the order to lower the weapon.

Once Alessio was sure Matteo had regained control, he asked, “You have this man they call the Reaper?”

Michele nodded. “I hope you don’t mind—I took a pound of flesh myself when we found him.” His grin turned sinister, the kind that would make anyone else want to flee. “Accardi would have wanted it that way, I believe,” he added, referencing Matteo’s father.

“Are you certain this man killed my family?” Matteo demanded.

Michele nodded again. “We did our due diligence. We posed as clients looking to hire a hitman, and he offered his services.”

“Who did you tell him was the target?” Matteo asked, narrowing his eyes.

Michele’s dark gaze locked onto him. “The only person he would believe I wanted dead badly enough to hire someone else to do it: you.”

Matteo scoffed, shaking his head as he sank back into the booth, crossing his arms. “What the hell do you want from us, Michele?”

“Your help,” Michele replied simply.

“With what?” Alessio pressed, clearly growing frustrated with the back-and-forth.

“Going to war.”

“The bloody Micks!” Michele slammed his fist on the table. “The bastards who killed my wife. The bastards who think they can invade my territory. The bastards who turned in one of my best men, sending my family into chaos in more ways than one. The bastards who did this to my son!”

Michele slammed a photograph onto the table. Alessio was the first to glance at it, his fingers curling tightly around the edges, causing the paper to crinkle. He slid it toward Matteo, who stared at it, initially unsure what he was seeing. It was an organ of some kind, presented in a gift box with a ribbon trailing off the side. Turning the picture upside down, Matteo’s stomach churned. It was a woman’s reproductive system—her ovaries, fallopian tubes, and uterus—still perfectly intact.

The room fell silent, the weight of the image hanging heavily between them.